Captured
by sylbil.petship
Summary: AU. Taken by the enemy and delivered to Fenir Greyback; a snapshot in the life of Hermione Granger. Missed challenge; one-shot.


AU. Taken by the enemy and delivered to Fenir Greyback; a snapshot in the life of Hermione Granger. Written with the Diabolical Death Eater prompt 002. in an alternate universe Hermione and company were taken to Malfoy Manner and while there had been an escape, it was not hers; 'what should have happened'. Missed challenge, because I was lazy, at GrangerEnchanted(dot)com.

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and the universe's assorted characters belong to J.K.Rowling; Gandalf the White (and Grey) belong to Tolkien, and the words 'opportune moment' were snatched from the first Pirates of the Caribbean movie.

Beta'd by Purple Fuzzi Wumps, all remaining mistakes are my own.

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Captured

She really needed to sit down. That chair, horribly ornate and ancient, would be perfect. Or the floor. Yes, the floor looked better; closer. Hard, dark, cold wood that was just laying there and it would only take a second or two to embrace its quiet invitation. But that would make her look weak, and if she wasn't going to bow down on bended knee before the monster, she wasn't about to collapse into unconsciousness. Even if it sounded good. Better than a bubble bath, though she told them she wouldn't pass one up as long as there weren't kisplisers in the vicinity; Luna had informed her that morning it was the start of their mating season and it seemed terribly rude to watch. But then it didn't seem to matter as they suddenly remembered they were wizards and she was on the floor anyway.

Magical current electrified nerve endings and short-circuited what her Aunt's tenth chapter anatomy text jokingly called the gatekeepers. There was no off switch, no damming to the pain. Just twitching and flailing and crying and screaming on a bloodied floor. It wasn't shouting or cursing they wanted and so when breathing became possible again she listed the alchemic process to make gold from silver. With ingredients that would ensure the cauldron would do much worse than melt, quicker than seventh period double potions under Longbottom's attention. At a time and phase of the earth's rotation that would ensure the volatile combination erupted with a light display better witnessed from the next town, or a distant hill, or several…

The floor's really nice. Solid. Sorta friendly even. And she wondered for a moment if she should tell them that much more of this and she was sure her body would defy history and documentation and liquefy. A puddle of Hermione-goo that would slip through their grasp, but surely the next floor would be just as comfortable a place for interrogation as this one. Maybe she'd be able to see Harry and Ron, but wait, no. There were words of 'escape' and 'blood-traitor's elf' and several curses in Muggle fashion. Apparently we _are_ good for something, even if it's just for the ability to express one's self.

And then the dark robes multiplied.

The next time she opened her mouth with something other than a terrifyingly inhuman wail it was to laugh. A bit hysterically she thought, but she would much rather seem mad than defeated, though she was that as well. They had her after all, and she doubted a rescue would come in the next few moments. Maybe next week; Tuesday's good. Monday might be better though yesterday would have been perfect.

When she thinks to ask the time - random fleeting thoughts had her wondering if a new day had started and thank you, yes there were other places to be - Bellatrix flicked her wand and her body had trouble deciding if the fetal position or spread eagle, arms wide and arched on the ground had more merit. It probably was a Bad Thing to have the Lestrange woman appear one of the saner occupants in a gathering for any length of time. For surely Bellatrix had achieved at least several hours of lucid, cognitive appearance through her blathering. Hermione might have been proud if it hadn't meant she was certifiable by default. But really, all things considered, she didn't feel too bad about it. Perhaps she would move onto the theory of biomechanics and how it could be used to possibly alter one's genetic makeup or bring forth the parallels of Isaac Asimov's Three Laws of Robotics and, say… the evolution of dictatorship from a revolutionist's perspective. They were both terribly fascinating, she told them smiling to a high ceiling that looked more breath-of-spring than morning-mint.

She might have fallen into their trap and their torturous hands but they were fools still. They wouldn't find it, not from her. Not the location. Nor what protective spells were placed on it. Or who had it. Entirely possible she couldn't tell them what 'it' was even if they waited for the fog of too many crucios to lift. She didn't know, couldn't remember after a bout of what she thinks might be a self-inflicted obliviate. Shame really, they were only keeping her alive for information and she couldn't even give it to them. Not that she would, both having a choice before capture and following through with her decision. Whatever it was, apparently she was willing to sacrifice her life for its survival.

Perhaps they were interested in what psychologists said about masks instead. She might not have the references on her, in her other pair of pants you understand, but she was sure she could remember several key facts and elaborate from there. Bring up the question of who they were trying to deceive. Or how it was through anonymity they found a position of power. Maybe they would like to hear about the many types of masks and what they symbolized in different cultures. Gallows's humor and hang men and why _did_ they chose the title "Death Eater" and "Inner Circle" and not "Order of the Phoenix" because it could have been the other way around.

But they don't seem too keen on such talk, though several feet shifted in their positions as if uncomfortable. How long do these things take, because seriously, shouldn't she be pushing up the daisies or providing nutritious food for flobberworms? They should be minced, not chopped in most cases she starts to inform them but stops to laugh and tells them to 'ask Snape' instead. He was the Master here after all, and the laughter turns manic but this time it's because she used a word snake-face wanted directed at him and not one of his witless followers. Though she probably shouldn't have said that about Severus because he's suddenly there. Looming above her, dressed in uniform. It was his chin that gave it away. Well, if she was being honest with herself, and them by default of something that must be a weaker potionless wanded version of veritaserum, it was his lips. Their color and shape and form, because she grew up with that sneer and those eyes and had rarely seen him out of Death-Eater-Black, so really, the mask was hiding nothing she needed to identify the man. Who did they think they were fooling again?

But then she thought of the paranoia and the second-guessing of loyalties and the increasing amount of missions gone bad and knew it was working because there had to be a spy. A spy in the Order. A spy they couldn't identify. A spy, a spy, my kingdom for a spy, she sang and laughed at Snape. She supposed he reacted as he normally would when laughed at, though he should try it sometime because laughing with the stoic bat would be much better, but did he really have to push that hard? She had just gained her footing, too. Her new position might not be so bad though, sure her arm was being held at an angle that it really shouldn't but at least she could see more than feet and hemlines. She saw hair and eyes and my, what big teeth you have.

They were, she was sure, all the better to eat her with. Oh goody. Now she was werewolf property. It wasn't an improvement from being under Lestrange's, or Dolohov's, wand but at least it meant something was happening. Finally. Old Voldie could really talk when he had an audience and she hoped Harry caught him with an Avada while monologuing.

Yes, yes, I'm moving, she wanted to snap back with an equal sharp flavor but there was to much blood in her mouth and she really was to tired for caring about brash Gryffindor appearances. How did all those heroes and heroines in pop culture find time to throw witty clips and catch phrases while fighting their arch nemesis? But then she was a side-kick, wasn't she? Yes, maybe that explained it.

She tried to avoid Greyback's hand and, oh gods, move back, move away but it was to late. Always to late it seemed. Malfoy Manor had apparated into a darkness that looked suspiciously like the Forbidden Forrest and her ownership changed. Without a trade-in. Had he paid a price - wretched mongrel - she hoped it had been high and taken from his flesh. Or pelt. Maybe, if she survived this and life was rainbows and sunshine and butterflies, she would ask for her very own wolf-skin rug. It would be a wonderful welcome mat, she'd wipe her feet on it every evening coming home from hard days' work. Remus would just have to get used to it. He wouldn't mind too much, would he? After all he held a grudge against his sire for far longer than she ever thought to.

If she survived. But no, she would. Just out of spite. This loudmouth, know-it-all mudblood would stand at the end of this war and dance on several graves. Without speaking. Last thing she wanted was to activate some ancient long lost ritual to bring back the dead. Again. How many times had Voldie managed that feat? That's why Death Eater might not have been so great a name, phoenixes were eternal and mythologically immortal in a way Voldemort's crew would never be. They seemed to defy the grim reaper, mock and taunt him, which made them look quite foolish with their fear of the inevitable, while Dumbledore stood as a symbol of renewing life. Then again, he was murdered so maybe her line of thinking had a few flaws. Beyond the obvious that is. She wondered if Harry and Ron would visit her when Neville was about with his parents; St. Mungo's ward for the cursed might not be a cheery place, but there were worse locations.

Of course, and oh I take it these are friends of yours, it was the magical world and there was his painting looming behind McGonagall's not quite so newly appointed desk. Maybe he wasn't as dead as believed for the figure hadn't moved since the unveiling. Perhaps he was merely waiting for some final battle to bring in the troops, Gandalf the White neé Grey style. Opportune moment and battle strategy and, hey, can't we think about this?

She probably should have guessed their answer.


End file.
